


Neal and the Hydra

by Honyasbookshelf



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: BAMF Avengers, Classy Neal Caffrey, Fanboy Peter Burke, Gen, Held at Gunpoint, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov is amused, Neal Caffrey Whump, POV Neal Caffrey, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Prompt #3, Whumptober 2020, forced to their knees, manhandled, post-series for White Collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honyasbookshelf/pseuds/Honyasbookshelf
Summary: "Mozzie had told him about HYDRA, the secret evil organization within governments all over the world, but Neal had thought it was just another of his more out-there conspiracy theories. Looked like Moz was right about this one, though. Shit."Neal Caffrey has escaped and made a new life for himself in Paris. Now if he could just let go of his old FBI instincts and keep his nose out of things.
Kudos: 32
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Neal and the Hydra

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I know this premise is super random, but I am so excited for this story! I love how it turned out, and I hope you enjoy it. :D
> 
> French translations are at the end.

Neal Caffrey sat at a small outdoor café on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées soaking in the morning sunshine and indulging in his hobby of people-watching. He was only recently “deceased” and was enjoying a bit of a holiday from all the action and schemes that had been his life for the past number of years. His current alias—Michael Powers, a wealthy man of leisure—was becoming quite known at this particular café. They served the best coffee in this part of Paris, which Neal was currently enjoying along with a sweet, flaky pastry.

Neal winked at _la serveuse_ as she brought him a refill of coffee. Giselle was an art student at _École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts_ , working at the café to help pay for her schooling. She was intelligent and charming, and Neal hadn't decided yet whether she was a mark or a legitimate romantic interest. History wouldn't preclude his trying for both, though.

He took another sip of coffee, looking out at the people passing by. The middle-aged man in the blue turtleneck was going to propose; he kept fiddling with the ring box in his pocket and looking embarrassed and smitten all at once. The homely but sweet-looking woman he was with already knew the question was coming and was planning to say yes if her knowing smile was anything to go by. The businessman in the crisp suit sitting near him in the café reading the paper had been out of work for a week now (based on how long he'd been coming to the café) and still hadn't told his wife. And—

Oh shit. Peter had rubbed off on Neal too much. He couldn't just ignore the shady-looking guy walking down the street hiding a gun (badly) under his jacket. It looked like the guy was _trying_ to pull off “innocuous office worker,” but his muscle distribution, the way his eyes kept darting about, and the obvious heat he was packing all told a different story.

Neal stood abruptly, abandoning the remains of his breakfast. He smoothed his Devore jacket, donned his fedora with a showy flip, and left a nice tip on the table before he left. He may be tailing a bad guy, but he still had intentions to come back tomorrow, and he wanted to be on good terms with Giselle when he did so.

He fell into an easy tailing pattern, blending seamlessly into the crowds traveling the avenue. The guy he was following was twitchy but not particularly observant, it seemed.

Neal followed him to what seemed to be a bank. He stepped through the doors into a room that gave every appearance of being just that—an ordinary bank, albeit one distinctly lacking in patrons at the moment. Only . . . it wasn't exactly normal for bank tellers to carry guns under their suit coats, was it?

He stood in the door, ready to turn around and . . . he wasn't sure what he was going to do. He couldn't exactly call Peter now, could he? As it turned out, it didn't matter what he was planning. One of the tellers called out to him.

“ _Bonjour, monsieur._ What can we do for you?” In the moment, Neal decided to commit to the bit and see how this played out.

“ _Bonjour, mademoiselle._ My name is Michael Powers. I just recently moved here and was hoping to open a local account.”

“Of course, _Monsieur_ Powers, right this way. _Le directeur_ would be happy to assist you with opening an account.” She gestured for him to follow her into the back of the building. His mouth went dry as he noted the number of armed, competent-looking individuals around him. He was in way over his head.

“Actually, you know what?” he said, patting his pockets. “Silly me, I forgot my papers in the flat. Let me just run back and get them.” He turned to leave, only to freeze, his blood running cold, at the sound of a gun cocking behind him.

“I'm afraid I must insist, _monsieur_. _Le directeur_ is _very_ interested to meet you.”

Neal raised his hands in compliance and followed her, other “tellers” closing in behind him. He did his best to project an air of confidence he didn't feel as he walked into a dimly-lit elevator protected by a passcode (which he memorized) that just screamed “entrance to a bad guys' lair.” The elevator seemed to descend forever, deep underground where no one would ever hear what went on there.

When the doors opened and he saw the symbol painted on the wall outside, he couldn't hold back a gulp. It was a skull over a set of writhing tentacles. Mozzie had told him about HYDRA, the secret evil organization within governments all over the world, but Neal had thought it was just another of his more out-there conspiracy theories. Looked like Moz was right about this one, though. Shit.

He was marched out into a concrete-block room that was a beehive of activity. People were typing away at old computers, talking in Russian—something about the Avengers being too close, taking out too many of their bases. They sounded scared, not that Neal had any sympathy at that point. He _hoped_ the Avengers got them, not that that would do him any good. Unless he managed some _really_ smooth talking, it was looking like this may be the end of the line for him. You don't get this far into a secret evil base and live to come back out.

No one in the room paid Neal and his escort any mind as they passed through into a bare backroom. Neal's hands were wrenched behind his back and secured tightly with zip ties. It was only well-drilled practice that had him flexing to keep them loose enough to give him a chance at getting out later. He hoped he'd get a chance to try.

A hard kick to the back of his knee had him falling hard on his knees with a crack. He hissed at the impact with the concrete floor. He looked up at the click of a gun being cocked before him, staring up the barrel to a rough-looking man in his mid-fifties who looked like he could break Neal in two with his bare hands.

“Tell me what you know! Who do you work for?” the man barked in French with a heavy Russian accent.

“I- I don't know anything, _monsieur_. I just wanted to open an account. I'm independently wealthy; I don't work for anyone,” Neal sputtered, figuring playing innocent was worth a try at least. A moment later, he was struggling to right himself from a brutal slap to his face, his ears ringing from the impact.

“I don't believe you. How did you get here? It's the Avengers, isn't it? They sent you!” the man nearly screamed in his face, the gun in Neal's face shaking with the man's rage.

Neal chuckled softly, feeling a small trickle of blood running down his face from his nose. If that was how this guy wanted to play things. . . .

“What do I know?” he replied in perfect Russian. “I know your security is terrible. I know you're scared. Maybe the Avengers _did_ send me. They've been tracking down your little evil hideouts one by one, haven't they? It's only a matter of time until they find you here, you know.”

_Le directeur_ looked around nervously, and Neal was pretty sure this was it. He was going to be shot in the head, and no one he cared about was ever going to know what really happened to him. He swallowed hard, trying to think of _anything_ he could say to help his situation.

Just then, alarms started going off around the base, red lights flashing ominously. The noise was enough to make Neal cringe. Over the blaring alarm, he could barely hear people in the room outside scurrying about like mice in a panic. The man standing over him stared down at Neal, a combination of shock and anger twisting his face into an ugly scowl.

“What have you done?!” he screeched, picking Neal up by his shirtfront and shaking him violently. Neal had no breath to answer. A lackey poked his head nervously into the room—nerdy, glasses, probably there for his computer skills Neal's mind supplied absently.

“Sir, we're being invaded,” the lackey gasped. Neal found himself being dropped heavily onto the floor as the HYDRA leader stalked out of the room to deal with the situation. He lay where he fell for a minute, trying to catch his breath and take stock of the situation.

Apparently, whoever was invading had made it down the elevator to the lower level, because he could hear the sharp retort of gunfire and the impacts of bodies colliding with things in the room outside. Unwatched for the moment, Neal worked to free his hands from the zip ties. Once free, he swiped a silk handkerchief across his face to wipe away the blood. Ugh, the suit was ruined and his hat had been crushed in the ruckus.

No time to worry about that now, though. Neal poked his head around the doorframe to see that the battle (and yes, it had definitely been a battle) was almost finished. HYDRA operatives were downed all over the room, and standing over them was . . . the Avengers. Of course, it was.

_Click_. A small redhead dressed in a tight black outfit held a gun up to his head. ( _Black Widow,_ a distant part of Neal's mind supplied.) He instantly raised his hands.

“Look, I'm not with them. They were going to kill me, I'm pretty sure. Can you please put the gun down? I'm really tired of being almost shot today,” he protested. He was almost sure he saw the faintest hint of a smirk cross the redhead's face as she lowered her gun.

“I know,” she said. “We saw you tailing the HYDRA operative into this place.”

“That was really stupid, by the way,” Captain America added, replacing his shield on his back. “I mean, it worked out well for us. We'd been watching this place, trying to scope out an entrance. You gave us the distraction we needed to get in.”

“What I want to know,” genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Tony Stark said, stepping out from his Iron Man suit, “is who this joker is and how he ended up getting mixed up with HYDRA, to begin with. Does no one else find this suspicious? Because I'm pretty sure it's suspicious as hell.”

_You need to get these guys' autographs. Peter would love them!_ Neal's mind prompted him. He shook his head. Not getting shot by the good guys first would be great. He decided something approximating honesty would be his best bet in this situation.

“Look, I used to work with the FBI. I came to France to relax after I left the job. I saw the guy acting suspicious and old instincts just kicked in, so I followed him. I had _no_ idea I was getting into a HYDRA operation; I didn't even know they were anything more than a conspiracy theory before today.”

“And why should we believe this guy? Huh?” Stark asked. “The FBI? That's convenient. Can you prove any of this?”

“If you can take me with you back to New York, there's an agent there who can vouch for me, Peter Burke. He'd be thrilled to meet you. I mean, he acts like he's above your methods, like he disapproves, but I've seen his Captain America trading card collection. It's impressive.”

He could swear Black Widow smirked again, just slightly. She walked up to Captain America, poking him lightly in the arm.

“Come on, Steve. Let's go meet this fanboy. This should be fun,” she said.

And so, Neal found himself loaded onto some futuristic-looking airplane with a bunch of superheroes, flying back across the Atlantic to see his old friend. His wounds were treated by _the_ Bruce Banner, who muttered that he still wasn't “that kind of doctor.” He was offered a beer by the god of thunder himself. It was amusing to see all of these larger-than-life heroes just lounging around, teasing each other, and generally acting like normal people. Peter would have loved it.

Neal missed everyone back in New York; it would be good to see them. He _really_ hoped Peter had deciphered his message by now, though. It would be more than a little awkward to show up at his door, not dead, otherwise. Well, hopefully bringing the Avengers would be a good distraction?

“Hey, I know you're still waiting for my story to be verified, but do you think we could swing by somewhere to pick up food on the way?” he asked. He was pretty sure El would kill him anyway for bringing all these people by unannounced; the least he could do was bring food.

**Author's Note:**

> All translations are from Google translate. Feel free to correct me if I got something wrong.
> 
> la serveuse = the waitress  
> le directeur = the director
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I'd love to hear what you think! :)


End file.
